Page 134 of The Lord Meets His Lady

“Wait.” Genevieve scrambled upright, dropping the book. She stayed his hand, bumping into him. Her hand, her arms shook. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Please.”

If he touched her, what would happen?

She reached up and lightly traced his shoulder. So intent. Shudders darted through his body. The birthmarks. He’d forgotten about them. Staring at the ceiling, he gulped a mouthful of air.

Get ahold of yourself.

Her other hand rubbed his hip before sliding to his buttocks. She spread her fingers over his backside, her caresses lingering as if she measured its size.

“Finding something to your liking, Lady Bowles?”

She gave him a squeeze. “You have the finest bottom, Lord Bowles. And an even better heart,” she whispered, searching his face. “Whatever you decide, I believe in you. More than I ever thought I could with a man.”

Something melted inside him. Her lustrous eyes glowed, and from their depths, her sensual nature twined with deeper emotions. He touched the side of her mouth. So pretty. So sensible, his Genevieve. Gently his fingers slid over her bottom lip, opening her to him. Her lashes fluttered low. Her pink tongue darted out, grazing his fingertip.

He needed his wife, her taste, her warmth.

Opening his mouth, he bent low. His erection rubbed her skirt, the friction sublime. He brushed her lips. Slowly. Reverently. Their mouths closed together, the bond pure.

The kiss was flawless. And hot.

Pulling apart, they savored the silence. Hands linked, they kissed softly. Again and again, drowning in each other. He couldn’t be sure who, but one of them led the other to his bed. Genevieve reached behind her, untying the tapes of her underskirt. He pulled her shift’s bow flopping over her bodice and drew a line across tempting, ample flesh.

He lingered on the blue streak on her breast. “You’re my Pictish warrior, painting yourself with woad.”

Her skirt slid down. “Explain Pictish to me later. My clothes,” she huffed. “I shouldn’t have let you get undressed first.”

As she tugged on her front lacing, her body jostled from fast undressing. The clothes. They needed to come off. Hands behind her back, Genevieve leaned in to him, stealing a kiss. Once the connection was made, neither wanted to stop. Their hungry mouths locked; he worked her gown’s front cinches. Frantic fingers worked the laces too fast. The tie snapped. Her bodice drooped, and in a flurry, his hands and hers pushed the gray, patched gown over her head, pulling away from their kiss a moment before their mouths connected again.

A piece of the black tie was in hand. He mumbled an apology against her mouth and dropped it.

Genevieve stroked his erection, her lips moving over his. “Doesn’t matter.”

Hot sparks gathered in his abdomen. Pressure and want throbbed with her hand’s up-and-down rhythm. Lips and tongues touched. The inferno was building, and he was helpless to slow it.

He growled a profane word. “You feel so good, and I’m not inside you yet.”

She laughed against his lips, the sound deep and lusty, heating his skin better than the hearth. Her shift was the final barrier. Genevieve rubbed against him. Under the cambric, her breasts jostled.

Both hands gripped the wide neckline and pulled the shift down fast over her breasts. The garment caught on her elbows, stopping her busy hands. But her breasts…the sight of them made up for his cock’s loss.

His eyes feasted on round, pearled skin and one light-colored nipple, beading to a tight point. She was larger than the average woman. Two hands cupped one breast. Amber locks draped his hands holding her. Her dark eyes glinted with a sultry plea.

“Suckle me.”

Genevieve had full command tonight. He could deny her nothing. His mouth covered her nipple, spreading wider. She gasped, arching into him. Soft sucks. A little harder. Her tight nipple tickled the flat of his tongue as did the little bumps on her areola.

She moaned and wiggled. Her fingers raked his scalp. He kissed her cleavage and sucked her other breast, frenzied and hot, desperate to taste every inch of her. Her shift bunching at her waist was the final barrier between his skin and hers. Genevieve wiggled against him. Her heat, the cloth antagonized him. Under the cambric, her hips writhed as their kisses turned frantic.

In the tangle, their bodies dipped and tumbled onto the bed. The counterpane was cool to scorching skin. Genevieve wrapped around him, her body grinding his. He braced himself over her, working his way to her mouth, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses on her arm, her neck, her ear.

Never had he lacked such finesse. Or patience.

“Gen,” he panted. “I can’t…”

Her mouth silenced his. Feminine fingernails scraped his chest, his nipples.

“Ahhhuuuhhh,” he cried.